


493

by GaryTheFish



Series: Hope is a Four Letter Word [40]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/M, Loki - Canon Divergence, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 14:36:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8017783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaryTheFish/pseuds/GaryTheFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not that he's been counting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	493

_ She is just a little late; he thinks she must have missed the first train, as she sometimes does when her students are too persistent in their questions. He hears the door open, her footsteps stopping almost immediately, and then comes the familiar sound of her shoes hitting the rug. Her remaining steps nearly silent, she slips into the living room, hanging up her jacket and tossing her keys into the bowl on the bookshelf. A routine done with an easy grace, and one he will never tire of watching because it means she is home and does not plan to go out again.  _

_ He stands, shutting his laptop and going to the couch, and she adjusts her trajectory to meet his. A familiar dance, one they have done almost every evening in the weeks since they came here. He drops to the couch, and she takes his hand and maneuvers herself onto his lap.  _

_ “Long day?” he asks, palms against hers and fingers twined.  _

_ “I had to cover Josten’s office hours,” she replies. “That certainly made it seem longer. I’m going to start charging him extra for every time I have to re-explain postprocessualism to one of his students in words that normal people use.” She unwinds their hands, and her fingers comb along his temples. He closes his eyes to better appreciate the sensation.  “What about you?” _

_ He hums thoughtfully, unwilling to interrupt the feeling of her nails tracing soothing lines along his scalp, but at last he opens his eyes again with a bit of reluctance. “Submitted the final three designs today. I’m supposed to hear back by the end of next week, but time is just a construct, and I think no one on this realm believes that more firmly than Lord Bolingbroke. I’ll be lucky to get an answer by year’s end. Had a thankfully brief meeting with Tony about a contract negotiation next week; Parker says hello; all four of your books came in, and have you heard a single word I’ve said?” _

_ She shakes her head, her eyes on his lips. “No,” she says and kisses him. _

_ It is different. Each kiss is different, to be sure; it’s one thing he loves about them, but this one is something else all together. Slow, deliberate, achingly sweet and full of promises. She breaks it but leans away only slightly. “I wasn’t listening. I’m sorry. Tell me again.” _

_ “Tell you what?” he asks vaguely, and she smiles. Their lips meet again for only a moment before she moves hers toward the angle of his jaw, her hands slipping from his hair and drifting along his chest. Her voice is low in his ear.  _

_ “Tell me to stop, if you want me to,” she says against his skin, and a tiny shiver courses along his spine. He pulls his head back, scraping his last bits of rational thought together and meeting her eyes. They are calm and sure, a bit of a question hidden deep in the green and silver, and she does not need to tell him what she means.  _

_ “Do you want this?” He curls his hand around the back of her neck, thumb stroking below her ear.  _

_ “Yes,” she says simply. “I do.” _

_ “Then I’ll tell you no such thing. But I don’t have…” His smile is a little chagrined; he has not expected this. “I’m not exactly prepared.” _

_ “I am,” she replies to his apparently evident surprise, and her smile is almost bashful. “I didn’t decide this on the train ride home. I’ve wanted this for a while, but I also wanted to make sure it was right.” Her brow knits. “So you…” _

_ A helpless laugh. “Gods, woman. I’ve wanted this since the first time we sparred. Since the first time I held you. Since I learned how you felt in my arms.” He drops his hands to her hips, tightening her against him. “Since the first time I guessed how perfectly we’d fit together.” His lips are close to hers, his voice soft and intense, and as she sways into him, he leans back out of reach. “I beg your pardon,” he says with a bit of a grin. “You were seducing me, and I interrupted. Please continue.” _

_ Her lips curve into half a smirk, and this time, he does not bother suppressing the flutter that comes to his stomach whenever she gives him that look. “Well, I thought perhaps we’d take turns.” Her fingers toy with the buttons of his shirt. “I mean, you’ve made it clear that it’s my choice, but it’s not about just me, or just you. It’s about us.” _

_ “Kiss me again,” he merely says. She does, and as she does so, the lock on his casket of memories shatters. They scatter across the floor, exploding into iridescence, and at last he can allow himself to remember, to feel the things he could not before this moment. The way she leans against him when she is not thinking about it. The way her knees frame his thighs. The curve of her hip. The slope of her waist where it meets her ribs. The sweep of her hair, grown longer in the months they have spent together. The way her lips tease along his, warm and soft, and he opens his mouth to hers without a thought. It is far from the first time he has, but this time he feels her need and answers with fire of his own, fingers cupping her jaw.  _

_ Her hands stroke across the crisp fabric of his shirt, and he cannot stop the tiny noise in the back of his throat as he deepens the kiss a little more. She tugs his shirt upward; he arches his back to help her pull it free, and her fingers are quick and sure on the buttons. He tries to slip his hands from the sleeves as rapidly as he can, begrudging the time his fingers cannot be on her.  _

_ She breaks the kiss long enough to help him, laying the shirt aside and smoothing her hands slowly along his bare chest. There is a curiosity in her touch, wonder in her face, and he stills her for a moment, a wrinkle between his brows.  _

_ “I thought you said I wasn’t your first.” _

_ Her laugh is quiet. “No,” she says, gently tracing the thin scars that stretch along his collarbone. She leans forward, ghosting her lips across the point where they end just shy of his shoulder. “But you may as well be.”  _

_ He smiles a little at that; his hands roam across her back and hips as his lips unerringly find the spot beneath her jaw that invariably raises goosebumps with just the right amount of pressure; her nails dig ever so slightly into his chest in response, and suddenly she is not the only one with goosebumps. _

_ She is wearing too much; there is too much fabric between him and her, and he does not realize he has said it aloud until she laughs and he feels it against his lips. She guides his hands to the zipper on her sweatshirt, and he pulls the metal down almost reverently, following its path back up with careful hands and sliding her sleeves down her arms as he brings his lips back to her neck. Her hands come up, fingers twisting in his hair as he nips the skin of her throat. His hands trail down her body, delving skillfully under the hem of her shirt and caressing the smooth skin he finds beneath. _

_ Her hands tighten helplessly, and he catches the sigh she makes on his tongue in the moment before she leans away. There is a physical ache in him when she stands, a barren cold where her hips have been, but then she pulls him to his feet with a smile he has only seen in dreams. He does not recall how far it is to his room; he only knows that it is taking them longer to get there than it should, and so he scoops her up, her legs around his waist and his hands beneath her thighs.  _

_ He will not put her down, cannot fathom it for even a second; her arms wrap around his neck as he lets go with one hand just long enough to close the curtains and tap once on the desk lamp, bathing the room in dim, cool light. Her clothes mingle with his on the floor, pooling like water around them, and she is warm and silken in his arms as he at last traces his tongue lightly down her neck, following the drop of sweat that has long since vanished. Her lips find the hollow of his throat in return, and he shivers. There is no hesitance in the way her fingers slip beneath the waistband of his boxers; she slides them down his hips, and four hundred and ninety-three days after he first saw her face through his prison wall, she casts aside the last barrier between them and tumbles them both to the bed. _

_ He is drunk with her scent, drunk with the taste of her skin, drunk with the sounds he draws from her lips; he loses count of the times she cries out and arches against his mouth. She is sweet as summer mead on his tongue, and he will never have his fill of her.  _

_ At last she gently twists away, beckoning him with a laugh he swears he will hear again, and he leaves a trail of kisses up her body, smiling as she jolts when he finds a sensitive spot. She turns the tables and reaches between them, taking him in one hand and setting every nerve in his body alight. She strokes him, sliding fingers and thumb along his length, and he braces on shaking arms, his eyes falling closed as she skims both hands to his hips and slips against him.  He enters her in one smooth, uninterrupted stroke. She is tight and slick and hot and his breath is ragged as they move together in exquisite rhythm. He has never felt more complete, more whole, and he does not stifle the sound that comes when he sinks to the hilt and her legs slide along his sides, taking him deeper still as his hips buck against her in a steady pattern. She trails her fingers up his back and cradles his head in her hand. _

_ “Loki,” she breathes, so close that her lips brush his ear. “My sweet, beautiful Loki.” _

_ It is all he needs, all he has ever needed, all it takes to send him over the edge, and as the world goes white, he is wildly glad that four hundred and ninety-three days ago she told him her name, because in this moment, this perfect, incandescent moment, it is the only thing he remembers. _

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback appreciated on this one! I'd really like to know how it worked and what you think. :) Love you all! Happy Monday!


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